


Slam poems about a boy with fire as hair

by Suchafangirl23



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Havent met each other, He will still fuck u up though, M/M, Mickey is out and proud, Micky writes about a boy with red hair, Poet Mickey, Soft Mick, slam poems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suchafangirl23/pseuds/Suchafangirl23
Summary: Mickey Milkovitch writes. He writes about his life. His family. What it's like growing up as a South sider thug who happens to be gay.But lately, all his poems are about a boy he keeps seeing with fire as hair.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New to this fandom. Please be kind. Kudos and comments are my life blood.

Micky takes a deep breath before he walks out on the stage. The crowd tonight is small. Mainly just filled with regulars and the occasional nameless stranger. His clenched his fists and looks down at the letters km his knuckles. The "fuck you up" has bled a bit more into his skin and he's okay with that.

Gripping the microphone, he brings it towards him and coughs into it before speaking. 

"Hey everyone. Most of you know me," a smile comes to his face as a couple of regulars whoop, "to those of you who don't, my names Micky or Mick which ever you fuckers prefer, I don't really care." The crowd laughs and he takes out his cracked phone and pulls up his note app. He clicks on his newest poem and takes another breath. 

"I know you guys are use to me writing about how the south side is but lately I've been more curious about a boy I keep seeing on the streets or in the small store by my house. He's something and I just can't get him or his fiery hair outta my god damn head. Honestly, I think he's a bit under my skin, so, the fuck can I do?" 

He takes a deep breath, releases it and says, "this poem is called "Him". I hope you all like it and if you don't, the doors right there and it's plenty big enough for you to walk through."

"He's got this pale skin that always reminds me of fucking Antarctica. Honestly, the first time I saw him I thought he was a god damn vampire. 

I kept looking at his mouth from across the street just to see if the guy had fangs. I was also looking at his mouth because he's got nice looking lips and they're even better when they're pulled back in his stupid ass grin that never ceases to make my chest ache for some unknown fucking reason.

But the thing that caught my attention first was his hair. He's a ginger and my rowdy friends always say that a gingers dick is always crooked. I find myself wanting to see if it's true yet I fight the urge because well I'm a fucking gentleman. 

His hair is orange like fire and I always wonder if sleeping next to him would fight off the chills that are settled see into my bones or if when he blushes his cheeks match his hair. His hair is fire and I hope he is too because I find myself wanting to be burned by him every time I see him. It's to the point I don't wanna fucking see him because these thoughts won't leave me alone. 

I like his freckles. Freckles that I've never seen but I know he has because what ginger doesn't have freckles? I often look at the stars and think about his fire orange hair and the constellations of his freckles. 

I often think about him and his grin that I'd love to be the reason for. 

I just think about him and how I'd like to get to know him.

To be able to wave at him and for him to know who the fuck I was.

I just want him and he's under my skin like a scratch from a bug bite you just can't reach.

Maddening.

But I'd like to know him like how I know the south side streets. 

In short, I just fucking want him."

He smiles and bows as the crowd cheers. Shouts of "Mick" and "Mickey" along with whoops fills the air. 

Loosening the collar of his shirt, he makes his way off the stage. He exits the building and takes a breath of the cold Autumn air as he makes his way home.

The only thoughts in his head as he walks are fiery hair, freckles and a stupid grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Mornings are never Micky's cup of tea. He always wakes up tired because for some reason he can never just close his eyes and rest. His mind is always too loud. Thoughts never leave him alone and the words never stop being created. His brains a tangle of Ivy and thorns. Always stabbing just behind his closed eyelids. 

It's fucking unfair.

This morning, he wakes up with ink stains on his hands and multiple papers with poems about the guy he can't stop thinking about in a circle around him. Caging him in just like his thoughts. He yawns and sits up, taking in his surroundings.

His studio apartment is bleak to say the least. There's cracks on the ceiling, the windows always allow a slight breeze through whether they're locked or not, the water takes at least five minutes to heat up and his neighbors are load drunks who fuck up to four or six times a day. But, it's better than nothing and definitely better than living with his fag hater family. 

He rubs the heel of his ink smudged palm against his face. The scruff on his jaw is scratching and he grunts at the thought of shaving. Yawning once more, he gets up from his unmade bed and walks to the kitchen area to flick on his coffee pot. Taking down a bowl, he pours himself some cocoa pebbles only to groan I'm frustration when he remembers he doesn't have any milk. So, he just decides to eat handfuls of the stuff instead. 

Usually, he'd be at work but last night is brother called to let him know the shop would be closed until the runner of it gets released from jail on drug charges. Fucking fantastic. The coffee finishes and he pours himself a large cup sighing as the warm liquid replenishes his soul. 

After his first cup of the day, he heads of to take a shower, popping another handful of cereal into his mouth.

He shaves while the water heats up. When he gets in he almost moans at how good the water feels sliding down his tense neck and back muscles. He doesn't have anything to do today. He needs a new pack of cigs, even though he's trying to quit. He'll probably head down to the little corner store. He secretly hopes he'll see his muse. 

Mick honestly doesn't know why he's stuck on this guy. He just is and it's driving him up the fucking wall. The guy's pretty good looking. Tall and well muscled from what he's seen from a distance. He's too damn nervous to just walk up to the guy. What would he even say? "Hey, you don't know me but I write poems about you and watch you from a distance. Wanna maybe get coffee sometime?"

Yeah. No. 

Turning off the water, he steps out of the shower and roughly dries off with a scratchy towel before wrapping it around his waist. He walks to his dresser and pull out dark jeans and a light blue shirt. Slipping on his grey boxers, he gets ready for the day.

It's early Autumn so the wind is picking up bringing a steady chill along with it. Mickey Hayes the cold. He wants to move Mexico someday just because there are beaches and it's actually fucking warm. 

He slips on his boots, jacket and picks up his pocket journal. Making sure he's got his keys and wallet, he steps out of his apartment and locks the door. He grimaces as he hears his neighbors at it again. Honestly, why can't straights ever control themselves?

It's a lot colder outside and Micky pulls his jacket tighter around his small but thick frame. He mentally curses himself for not grabbing his gloves as he shoves his numb hands deep into his coat pockets. It's too fucking cold and Mick is miserable. Lucky, the store isn't that far of a walk. Mick's from south side after all. He can handle a bit of cold. He ain't weathers bitch.

The warmth of the store makes him sigh in relief. He goes to the candy aisle and grabs a king size Snickers then walks up to the counter taking out his ID to buy some damn cancer sticks. He almost drops his entire wallet when his eyes land on his muse. 

Red fiery hair, pale skin and green eyes stare back at him with that god damned smile. The fucker has green eyes. Darker than his own blue ones. They remind Mick of spring time when everything's green and shit. The guy's like a fresh breath of spring.

"Morning, what can I get you today?" His voice is low and so fucking attractive. It sounds like pure sex and Mick has to fight back a anguished groan. 

"Uh, yeah can I get a pack of your cheapest cigarettes?" He has to fight in order to keep his voice disinterested as possible. The guy shoots him that grin and nods. Mick watches transfixed as a strand of red and orange hair falls over those dazzling spring green eyes. He has to hold himself back from pushing it behind the guy's ear. 

"Can I see some ID, please?"

Mick raises an eyebrow at him. "You fucking serious, man?" When he nods, Mick let's out a small chuckle. 

"Didn't know I looked 16," he teases as he hands over his ID. Their fingers brush minutely and he fights back a shiver. The guy just smiles and says, "well, Mickey, you definitely don't look 22. I woulda guessed 19 at most."

He hands back the ID and turns to get a pack of cigs. He's got a nice Ass and Mickey isn't ashamed to ogle it for a few seconds. 

The guy hands the pack over with a wink.

"Have a nice day," he calls as Mickey makes his way out of the store and back home. 

Suddenly, not as cold and desperately needing to write.


	3. Chapter 3

Micky sits at his small kitchen table that his brother stole for him as a house warming gift writing in his small pocket journal. He puffs on his cigarette and savors the feeling of tobacco heavy in his lungs. Releasing a puff of smoke, he looks down at what he's written so far.

He doesn't know if it's good or not. Honestly, he never knows if any of his shit is good. Not until he delivers it in front of the regulars and hear their excited and pleased whoops. Until he delivers them, he doesn't trust that his writings are any good. 

He use to have is little sister read them over for him because out of all his siblings, Mandy was no doubt the most intelligent. Her being smart and shit was the reason why she was able to get out of South Side. Her above average grades got her into a fancy university in another part of Chicago. A nicer part and a safer part. A part where she won't be threatened by a rival yang or any bullshit like that. Mickey is trying to get out, too. But, getting his GED is harder than he thought and not getting the practice tests right just makes him wanna fucking punch something.

He sometimes misses the familiar sting in his knuckes or the sound of his fist connecting with someone's face. He misses the taste of blood in his mouth and the ache in his jaw. But, he is trying to be better than how the South Side taught him to be. Writing is the only career he can see himself having because writing was and is his ticket away from the shit storm of reality.

It's his Savior and his salvation; a way for him to get his feelings out and not feel weak about it. Not anymore. It's help him over come everything in his life. He came out by one of his writings.

Sure, his dad kicked his ass but he was able to tell them. And so what if he's still a bit afraid of Terry? The guy's a no good drunk and doesn't have any power over him. He's better than what his namesake is and he's gonna fucking prove it.

He shouldn't have to feel bad about something he can't change.

Pulling out his well used phone, he pulls up Mandy's message box. They still talk with texting and his sister sometimes calls him to say she's okay and to bitch about her child psychology class. She wants to be a therapist and Mickey knows she will fucking strive at it or Micky will kick her professor's ass.

_Hey, baby sis, how's it going?_

_Mick! Hey, it's going great! I just passed that test I was bitching to you about with the second highest score in the class. This one kid named Ricky is hella smart. What's up with you, big bro?_

_That's fucking great, Mands. Proud of you and tell that kid to fuck off. You deserve to have the highest grade. Ah, you know same old same old. Writing and shit, trying to get my GED because not all of us are smart lmao._

_Thanks, Mick. He isn't that bad. I'll get him next time. You better keep up with writing or I'll kick your ass._

_I know, I know. That's kinda why I texted. You up to reading a poem for me? I need your feedback._

_Of course, Mick!_

 

_We came face to face today and you made me about drop my ID and snickers. Your hair is fiery flames up close, I think I saw it light up in the florescent lights and your skin is so pale I'm afraid the lights from your work will give you sunburn._

_I have never liked the color green. I mean, who looks at all the colors and says their favorite one is green? No one, that's fucking who. But, I think you're changing my mind just like you're changing the rhythm of my heart because it speeds up when I see you and thumps up my throat and that makes it hard to breathe._

_I'm starting to appreciate the color green because your eyes are green. They're all the shades of green I can think of and looking into them today made my knees weak and my head fucking spin until the shop felt like it was upside down and I was bound to end up with my ass on the ceiling. You're changing so many things for me and I don't even know your fucking name but I know it would become one of my favorite words in any language._

_Just because my roots are dug deep in the South Side doesn't mean that I don't know words._

_It doesn't mean I don't know that green is symbolized as good luck and being sick. And that's how you make me feel; like I hit the jackpot then bought so much food I feel like I'm going to puke. It's ironic that your eyes are green but I hope you bring good luck because I could use some. You still make me feel sick but it's a good kind and not a bad._

_I hope I see you again. I hope I learn your name just so I can say it over and over until the taste of it gets imprinted on my tongue; a reminder of you so I don't forget._

_I don't ever want to forget._

 

_Micky._

_Yeah?_

_Just fucking write a book and get published. I swear to God every poem of yours I read makes me cry._

 

_So, it's good then?_

_Yes, Mick. It's Amazing. I gotta go. Love you and good luck with the guy!_

 

_Love you, too, Mands._

 

Mick smiles as he clicks off his phone. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he thinks about swirling green eyes and burning hair.


	4. Chapter 4

The video recorder on Mickey's shitty camera is blinking red so he knows it's not yet recording. He stands in front the white sheet he placed over his window looking at the camera and trying to take calming breaths. Deep in his stomach below his twisting insides, he knows this is probably a fucking terrible idea.

But, he wants more people to hear his poems and performing at the bar just isn't reaching enough people. He knows his poems are worth hearing and maybe just maybe he hopes the guy with flame hair and wide green eyes will hear them. Before he can chicken out, he leaps forward and presses the go button. 

He looks evenly at the camera and a small smile comes to his lips. He takes another calming breath before he starts. 

"Hey. I'm Mickey. I, Uh, have never done this before so bare with me, okay? I'm sending this to your channel in hopes that you'll find my poem worth showing." 

 

He smiles at the camera on last time before taking out his trusted phone and bringing up one of the very first poems he'd ever written.

"This poem is called 'Flaunt my Colors'. 

I was born in a shitty hospital just outside of south side Chicago. The windy city is my home and sometimes I feel like it's often my captor. 

The roots of my childhood have become more like chains clamped too tightly against my ankles, drawing blood and making me wince with every small step I try to take. I've tried cutting them off but I've only gotten as far to thin the metal out a bit but at least their hold around my raw ankles has gotten a bit looser.

The first time I ever kissed a girl was in seventh grade and I knew something wasn't right because all my friends had told me what it was suppose to feel like. 

Her lips were suppose to be soft; her tongue inviting and tasting like my favorite candy. Heat was suppose to pool into my stomach and I was suppose to get hard.

Imagine my shock when none of this happened.

Instead of soft, her lips were dry and cracked, resembling sand paper. Her tongue didn't taste like any of my favorite candies. It tasted of the cigarettes and burning vodka we had been drinking and chain smoking because what else were two poor south side kids suppose to do on weekends?

I didn't get hard and no heat pooled into my stomach. If anything, I was more flaccid than before and my body just felt cold and I couldn't get the taste of her tongue out of my mouth. Sometimes I can still taste it.

I kissed a boy in 10th grade and knew I was totally fucked when everything that was suppose to happen with her happened with him instead. I was afraid to go home because I thought my dad and older brothers were able to smell the fag on me. 

I was afraid to sleep because I thought my dad was going to come in and bash my skull in like he'd done to all the braver ones before me. 

When my dad finally discovered that his youngest boy was gay, he beat me so bad that I was put into the hospital. After I was released, I purposefully got into a fight with a cop so I could go to jail. I knew that jail was safer than my own home. 

Isn't that sad? 

I thought family was suppose to love and support each other but all mine ever did was giving me bruises in more ways than one.

I'm no longer afraid to be proud. My chains are slowly slipping off and colors are finally being to show and they're more vibrant than I could have ever hoped. 

I'm learning to be proud of myself. I no longer am disgusted by what I see in the mirror. I'm learning to love myself. I no longer wake up with the feeling of fear and my dad's words in my head. I'm learning to be okay.

I'm learning how to flaunt my colors."


	5. Chapter 5

He watches the video over and over again and each time, he feels like he's making a mistake. He roughly pushes one of his tattooed fingers against his nose and sighs in frustration. This is possibly his best shot, his only shot, to be discovered and for his words to help others. But, yet, he can't help being afraid. The fear of Terry coming after him sends cold chills rattling down his spine and makes his whole body tense. 

When he closes his eyes, he can still feel his fists crashing into his face over and over. He can still hear his words. He can still taste the blood in his mouth. He can still see the bruises and smell his hospital room. He can still see his x-rays of thee broken ribs and the broken wrist. When he closes his eyes, the old nightmares rear their ugly heads and open their big fucking mouths, their lips lined with sharp and deadly teeth just ready to chew him up and spit him out. It wasn't just a bad dream. It was his life and the fear of his past demons make him dread what could happen if he sent this in. If more people heard his story and poems. 

"Come on, Mick," he says to himself as he moves the cursor on his shitty laptop over the send button. His fingers are shaking and his throat starts to get tight. His eyes start to sting. Terry's face pops up into his mind. His face red and angry as he stares down at him with undeniable rage and disgust. How could someone hate their own child that much? You don't hurt the people you're suppose to love. You don't tear them down with your fists. You sure as hell don't put them in the hospital because of which sex they love. You don't try and beat the faggot out of them. 

Taking a deep breath, he thinks about his so called dad and finds that even though he is still afraid, he is no longer ashamed of himself. A smile, even though small, makes its home upon his trembling lips.

"Fuck you, Terry," he says as he clicks send.

Shutting his laptop, he pushes it away and stands up. He needs a smoke and a walk. He pulls on his jacket and scarf, knowing it's cold as balls outside because Chicago in the winter is never fun and he gets cold pretty fucking easily. Grabbing his phone and keys, he walks out the door and locks his apartment. He doesn't know where he plans on walking to. He's craving coffee. Good coffee. 

After walking for awhile, he comes across this cozy looking café that he's never noticed before. Giving a shrug of his shoulders, he walks in. The bell attached to the door gives off a pleasant sound as he walks in and wipes his shoes on the door mat. It's a small café but it's warm and smells heavenly. The familiar smell of coffee is heavy in the air mixed with the smell of fresh baked cookies and other various baked goods. He spots an empty table right by the window and decides that is now his spot. 

He walks up to the counter and clears his throat to get the person's attention. It's a young guy, probably a high schooler. Wavy brown hair pulled away from his face and piled into a bun at the top of his head. His name tag reads "Carl" his green maybe brown eyes read "please save me from this boredom". 

"Hi, welcome to the Coffee Shack, what can I get you today?" His voice is pleasant enough. Not snobby or rude, telling by his worn jeans, he's South side too. 

"Yeah, can I get a large black coffee and two," he squints at the array of baked goodies in the glass display case, "what the fuck are those?" He asks as he touches where the things are over the glass. Carl bends down to get a better look. 

"Honestly, man? I've no fucking clue but they're hella fucking bomb. Boss let's me take leftovers home. I recommend the chocolate filled croissants with the caramel drizzle. Will for sure satisfy some munchies." 

Mickey chuckles at the kid's choice of words and nods his head. "Aight, one large black coffee with two of the chocolate filled thingys with caramel drizzle." 

Carl nods and punches the order into the computer, " that'll be $3.15 and I'll have it out right away."

"Only $3.15?" he asks incredulously, "fuck that's cheap."

Carl nods. "Yeah the boss grew up in South side, knows how hard it is out here so he keeps it as cheap as possible. It's honestly pretty cool and none of the food is ever stale."

Handing over the money, Mick says, "I'll be coming back for sure then. Keep the change."

He takes a seat in his chair and looks at the snow falling gracefully down. The bell chimes on the door and another customer walks in. He hears Carl exclaim, "Ian! Here for your usual, bro?" Mick looks back out the window before he hears anything else. 

"This seat taken?"

Mick looks up so quick and is greeted by two familiar green eyes, a playful smirk and red hair. 

Oh.

Fuuucckkkk.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes approximately five to ten seconds for Mickey's brain to stop repeating the word fuck like a broken record player. It takes another fifteen seconds for him to realize that the fire hair guy, Ian, asked him a question. He's still standing in front of Mickey and the playful smirk and shining eyes are slowly losing their brightness. Which Mickey deems as completely and utterly unacceptable. 

"Nah, man," he says with all the chill his highly nervous body can manage, "all yours if you want it." He grimaces internally and his choice of words. But who is he kidding? He'd gladly give everything of himself to the guy he's been writing countless poems about.

He smiles and Mickey has to fight not to swoon right in front of him because god damn, a smile shouldn't be a close second to the fucking sun but hey, there's always an exception, after all. Mickey swallows thickly when Ian begins taking off his way too posh looking coat. His muscles coil and bunch, making the detailed veins on his pale arms even more noticeable. He is so fucked.

"You're Mickey, right?" He asks, tilting his head to the side like a fucking adorable ginger puppy. Mickey can only nod. Fighting to not stare at the red head's lips is proving to be a struggle. They're probably really soft and those muscles, so sleek and probably powerful, so hard. Being pinned under this guy would probably be as close to heaven as Mickey Milkovitch will ever get. His smile is already like the pearly white gates. He is so fucked./p>

"Ian," he says, holding out a very capable looking hand towards Mickey. He shakes it and relishes the skin to skin contact. Where they touch feels as though it is alive with sparking electricity. 

"Nice to meet you, firecrotch."

He rejoices in the laugh that escapes the taller man. He gets lost in the sparkle of Ian's green eyes. So, so, green.

"So, Mickey, where are you from?"

"You trying to small talk, firecrotch?" He asks with a smirk.

Shrugging his broad shoulders, Ian replies, "I hear that it's how you start a friendship. Figured I'd give it a shot."

Mickey laughs, a quiet real one, "Touché. I'm from South side. Born and raised, actually." Carl brings out his order and he takes a bite of the stupid fucking pastries and hums appreciatively at the sweetness and flakiness. He misses the way Ian's green eyes become dark. "What about you, firecritch?" He takes a sip of coffee and exclaims, "some good coffee right here."

Ian laughs again and nods inn agreement. "I'm from Southside, too, he says, "just got back from a trip actually. Funny how nothing seems to change here. No matter how many years you leave or miles you travel from here."

"What had you gone for so long? If I can ask. No pressure, man," Mickey says as he takes another bite of the pastry.

"Well. Long story short, I was fucking bat shit crazy when I left. My family didn't know what the Fuck had happened to me. I didn't even know what was happening. Bi polar disorder is funny that way," clearing his throat roughly, continues, "ended up real close to New York I think before my family filed me as missing. Spent some time as a stripper. Yeah." Mickey knows his face is portraying his shock and he immediately tries to school it into his usual bland and unfazed expression. It's too late because Ian just laughs and pushes the red hair back from his dazzling green eyes while he shrugs his broad shoulders. "It's in the past," he says, "I'm not ashamed of it anymore. Shit happens, you know? One minute you're doing well and then life just kicks you right in the dick." Mickey laughs and takes another sip of his coffee. "Well, we all got something, man. Your past isn't you. You can't live there or you won't grow. Everybody deserves to only look towards the future; to survive who they are in order to become who they need to be." He takes another bite of his food before asking, "So, you on medication or something? I've read up on bi polar disease before and know that it takes a while for all the shit to, you know, start working without making you wanna off yourself." Ian gives a nod. "Yeah, been on them for a year now. Still have my dark days and shit but they don't last that long anymore. Easier to pull myself out of them." "What are you doing job wise?" "Is this a date? Feels a lot like a date." "Nah, firecrotch. The next one might be if you answer my question." "Oh, so there's gonna be a next time. Okay, Um, I work at the store and I'm currently in training to become an EMT. Got about three months left until the big exam. What about you?" Mickey lets out a low whistle. "An EMT, huh? Sounds like a cool job. Saving lives and all that." He sips his coffee again before placing it on the granite surface of the table. "I currently work at a garage part time and at a little bar I know. Doesn't make much but it's enough to pay for my piece of shit apartment and food. When I'm not working, I write." He doesn't miss how the redhead's eyes widen in surprise before a dazzling smile shows up. Mickey gulps and fiddles with his coffee cup, trying to ease his stuttering heart. The fucking trader. "You write? Like novels and shit?" Mickey laughs a little and shakes his head. "Nah, never have the attention span to write a full novel with characters and shit. Everything comes and goes so quickly up here," he says tapping two fingers against his temple. "So, what do you write? You gotta tell me. I'm invested in you now." "Okay, man, chill," Mick laughs and shakes his head a bit at his tablemate's enthusiasm, "I write poems. Slam poems to be exact."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love y'all so much so please leave me a comment! They're my motivation to write.


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